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Sunday, December 20, 2009

Mom and I were decorating the tree today. No way we can do this without my Christmas Classics CD blaring in the background. I've been listening to this mix for years, and it's one of my favorites. So, this year, I couldn't help taking one song and dissecting it for you all.

Merry Christmas.

I really can't stay

=> I don't like you that much

(but baby it's cold outside)

=> I want to pretend I'm worried about your health, when really, I just want to bone.

Friday, December 18, 2009

"That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet"... ET NON. It wouldn't smell sweet. In fact, it smells like bigfoot's dick.

I know this is a difficult concept to grasp, but...

My name is Shannon. (let's say it slowly together: Sssshhhhhaaa-nnnnnnnnnoonnnnn)

Contrary to popular belief, my name is not:

- Sharon

- Chanel

- Chanonne

- Charoh

- Chinon

- Shanone

- Charnoh

- Sharelle

- Shiraz

- Chenan

- Sharnome

- Chelron

- Shiloh

- Simonne

- Chalon

- Shanune

Or any of the other ridunkulously WRONG spelling/pronunciation I've been called over the last 4 years. Oh how I wish this list of names were a joke. I literally JUST got called "Chanel" for the umpteenth time during a conference call with a client. Yes, I am a fan, NO it is NOT my namesake. It's ok. I forgive you. Only because you're about to feel like a DoucheLord (your welcome butt), when I send you this email and my signature pops out at you like a giant sign that reads "WAY TO LISTEN ASS CLOWN."

What is the deal people? Explain it to me. I could understand if my name were totally unheard of or complicated or had some weird spelling like those combination names (Yeah, I'm talking to YOU LatoyOpra!!). I KNOW you all get 90210 over here, so no excuses. Shannen Doherty's limitless bitchosity is world renowned.

I work in an international context, so these little mix ups are bound to happen. I've had some doozies in my day, so if I can get through some of your names that need desperately to buy a vowel, or have more symbols and accents than a en eastern european city, you should be able to tackle 2 syllables without mangling them.

Sorry to name names but, Edenausegboye and Ne'igalomeatiga, it's time to get a damn nickname. How about I call you Eddie & Neigi?

PS: Did you know that unpronounceable name n°2 means "unforgettable pain??"... yeah.. that's what I want everyone to remember me as... UNFORGETTABLE.. PAIN. Good call!

Thursday, December 17, 2009

You've heard of it, we all have. Being Fashionably Late is how they dizou it here.

We have several time zones in the US, but I would offer that there is more than 1 in France. There is GMT+1 all over the country, and GMT +1.5 to GMT+2 in the region of Paris.

If you're not at least 20 min. late, you are a maxi douche. Maxi being the biggest possible, and Douche not meaning the literal "shower". The only time my friends show up on time is when I've cleverly announced that I'm making lasagne and it will only be around until 9pm. (Oh yes. My milkshake, and/or Lasagne, bring all the friends to my yard. Oh yes. It's better than yours. I can't teach you because my gdamn recipe is in the metric system.)

If you should, by some cruel twist of fate, show up within the half an hour after the announced time frame... you shall regret it my douches. It's tantamount to sabotage. Show up before and you've committed a mistake worthy of permanent exile.

Hypothetical situation (entirely based in FACT):

If I invite you to come over at 8 and you're there at 8:15... I'll be scrambling out of the shower, hair-in-towel, throwing the hors d'oeuvres into the oven and struggling to pour you a cocktail with one hand since the other is preventing indecent exposure. Arrive at 8:35, and you'll be greeted with a dazzling smile by a Donna Reid's chubbier, less talented (and definitely evil) twin.

BUT.

(You knew there had to be a "but", didn't you. It wouldn't be France if there wasn't at least a "however".) Partiers Beware. Showing up too late also has its perils. I think the limit depends on the occasion, but it's safe to say that you should show your face within an hour of the expected time. If you have another occasion that trumps the hosts he or she might let you off the hook if you look extremely repentant and excuse yourself for 20 min to a half an hour.

I'm a nerd, so to help you, I've devised a formula that will prevent your ass from being thoroughly loathed and save your host from unexpected frontal nudity:

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Did you know I can read minds? Especially the minds of waiters. I'm so good, I should have my own show like Ricky Lake, except I'll go from restaurant to restaurant and tell you on a scale from 1 to 10 how much the help despises you.

"YOU!!", I'll say placing my hand on their forehead... "NINE point SEVEN. I hope you like your steak with saliva sauce and a hint of cigarette."

French food is freaking dlish. Which is what makes the dining experience all that more cruel. They turn what should be a culinary dream come true, into an exercise in humiliation.

At times I think there may even be a secret society of wait staff, plotting the take over of the world, belittling one table at a time. I read somewhere that a foreign exchange student had a 6month bout of depression because he felt inferior. Who made him feel so small you ask? Who would be so cruel? Who else? The wait staff. How is this possible?? You're wondering, let me give you a little insight into their thought process at various stages in your dining experience:

When you walk into the restaurant :(smoke, smoke, smoke)... sheet. Now I haf to go een to serf this zjehrk.
I don't see you.. I don't see you.. I don't see you...
you do not exzist even zough your are ze fattest man and woman I ever see.

(Twenty minutes to a full half an hour later...)

When you flail your arms around shouting at him to get your grubby hands on a stinking menu from across the room where he refuses to acknowledge you exist :
Make me do one more sing and I swear to dieu, I speet in your onions soups and put my own special sauces into your cheece toppings. Get out beach, you fat too much to eating. You exploding soon.

(3 more cigarettes later...)

When you ask what "Kordone Bleh" means:
I sink eet means zat you weel eat my sheet for dinear before I serve you somsing you cannot even say, slimey rat-fuck-american-sheet-ass.

(Mastermind waiter will now proceed to go around to every single other table in the restaurant except yours, then clean random empty tables, then stock the salt & pepper before he decides you deserve to eat...)

When you order:Choke. Die. I 'ate you.

(After he's made sure your food is cold enough to be served and rubbed his spit into it before leaving the kitchen.)

When you ask for more wine:
You are sheet. You are not worsie of our vignes. I git you som, but only so I can stand in ze corner laughing at your big red faces when you are ze drunk.

(After he's done laughing and pointing at your red face with his friends.)

When you ask for more ketchup for your Cordon Bleu:
I'm going to pretend zat I deed not 'ear zisse, because I will keel you untill you are ze dying red-face man I 'ate.

(Naturally, there is no more ketchup.)

When you ask for more desert:
Zisse is amazings. He did not choke on ze foods while stuffing heece fat red faces, and now he wants to tempt ze fates again?

Monday, December 14, 2009

I'm an old married hag now, so I can admit without fear of ridicule that my capacity to flirt is limited at best.

I grew up in the heartland where the rules of attraction were fuzzy. If you liked someone, you had several methods of transmitting your amorous feelings. I never had a clue which one I should be using since it depended on so many different things...
- will there be a blizzard this afternoon? (from Nov-Apr. the answer to this question is always YES. Meaning my car has become a makeshift igloo whose only use is being a target for my dog; no way I'm going on dates in that yellow-stained P.O.S.)

- will it be 110 degrees outside? (Again, from Jul-Aug.. YES. In which case I have to spend the day under a rock to hide my aforementioned ridunkulous sweating tragedy.)

- the proximity of bovine waste (manure always puts a damper on the romance card.)

- how many Miller Genuine Drafts were just pounded by poking a pen into a can (beergoggles most definitely lead to regret.)

- does he have "Jerry Springer" fan written on his face? (this eliminates a large portion of the potential flirt population already.)

- is there a skank standing in the wings who wants to break a chair over my head if I talk to him (you don't see this one coming the first few times you approach your target.)

If conditions were right, you could spray your crush with beer, go cowtipping, or my personal favorite, stand in a corner of a bar and pretend to ignore them completely.

... it was complicated and.. well.. unrefined.

Here, it's a whole new ballgame. I could be mauled by an ape and still get hit on as long as I have a vag, it's almost a rule. This tradition is hardwired into some men, like holding the door open is for American gentleman.

And they don't flirt lightly either. In the states you'll get a cat call, or a slurred "hayy babry comma talkky with usssss freh sec?" The french dial it up 25 notches. "Hello my dearest beauty, may I inform you that you are a stunning flower of delicate grace and I would like nothing more than for you to know that you are lovingly admired." ... I swear to dieu that a construction worker said that to me last week.

If you're unfamiliar with the French, I suggest you follow these rules lovingly relayed by my husband when I first arrived:

1) Under no circumstances should you EVER talk to ANYONE at ANY TIME, ANYWHERE. You are a MUTE.
2) They are the male equivalent of Medusa. Look them in the eye, and they will make you very uncomfortable.
3) Touching is out of the question. Forget your hands exist. You, are officially appendageless.4) Don't kiss the banker. That's a whole other story I'll get to later when I tackle greetings.

Assuming you follow these rules, you should make it out alive and un-whored.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

My husband... siiighh... I am wrapped around his little french finger. But since we've been married, he's developed some pesky allergies. I myself am a sufferer of seasonal allergies, so I sympathized at first.

But after several years, I'm beginning to think the treatment regimen is not panning out. The attacks are becoming less frequent, only once a week, but I worry that we may never find a cure.

Here are a few examples of his various attacks:

- VacuumitusSymptoms may include but are not limited to:

Back pain

Lazy eye

Lack of motivation and/or depression

- Iron FeverSymptoms may include but are not limited to:

sickly appearance

paralysis

mood swings

burning sensations on fingers

- TrashousisSymptoms may include but are not limited to:

Bouts of moderate to severe weakness

Extreme sensibility to odors

Pain in the rectal region

To sum up, they're a real bitch.

Each relapse means days of recovery, sometimes weeks; this is often the case with Laundritosis, whose symptoms resemble Iron Fever, minus the burning sensation. When he has Laundritosis, sometimes I wonder if he'll ever come out of it. This problem will only get worse in time since it can become contagious. It can be spread to loved ones, so be on your guard. Above all, if you want to avoid Laundritosis, never EVER take a nap with someone who is L-Positive, it's the surest way to catch it yourself.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

What's my address? Easy. 3 avenue de Merde Par Tout. I know this is cliché. I know EVERYONE says this. But I can't help myself, it's a part of French life that I would be remiss not blogging about. I think we all know what I'm referring to.

Poop. Capital "C" Crap. The brown log farm. The evacuation station.

Have you been to the city yet? If not, may I suggest not leaving your home without a pair of these? Because sooner or later, you're going to be knee-deep in dog excrement.

People here do not feel it's their doodie (sorry, hung up on dung), duty to to take care of this particular problem. Love dog? YES! Dress dog in plaid outfits? Of course. Turn dog into child-replacement? With pleasure. Pick up dog's sidewalk presents? (crickets chirp.) Not in the job description.

I'm slowly getting used to it, but as someone who has loved, fed, bathed, and de-pooped the streets of my dogs for over 15 years... I don't know if I'll ever really understand it.

I've seen it live a few times. A part of me wants to scream and a part of me wants to laugh. Usually, it's some 70yr old lady, so I can't blame her for not wanting to bend over, what gets me is her reaction to her pet. She stands there staring avidly at said animal, cheering it on like she were at the Shit Olympics, "poop! go poopy! Come on!! Poopy-times!!" for at least 5 good minutes, until it finally takes her advice at which point she stares non-chalantly at the sky. You'd think after all that hard work motivating and encouraging her schnouser to take a dump she'd want to rejoice in the fine workings of its bowls by taking a peek at the victory trophy?

Last summer there must've been a chihuahua convention in front of my apartment because there were so many bite-sized piles littering the path between my front door & the subway that I hardly got through un-browned. I am not kidding. I nearly made little signs to stick in each one to make the following sentence:

"You French Bastards. Clean up after your damn mut or I will poop in your hallway, god is my whitness. PS: Stop feeding your dog whatever it is you're feeding it."

That makes for a multitude of tinypoops. V talked me out of that one, but a little part of me regrets not doing it. Oh well. There's always next year.

Friday, December 11, 2009

If there's one thing I can say I fully agree with in French culture, it has to be their champagne consumption practices. I remember back when I lived in the midwest, I could count the number of times in my life I had had champagne. I think once. I think.

In the states my idea of "bubbly" was never more exotic than Schweppes, but here they pull out the cork at the drop of a hat. It's gotten to the point where champagne is losing it's bubbly excitement. I got a parking space, POP!! I really enjoy this gum, POP POP POP!!

Take the last month for example. I had several friends turn thirty, a few colleagues change jobs, thanksgiving w/ the frenchies, a big win at work and a housewarming party.

Needless to say, I've been stinking drunk for weeks.

If I go out again and someone fails to immediately pour a magnum of Mum's down my throat, I think I might actually be insulted. (No pressure everybody... no pressure at all.)

See this is another reason why I can't see myself moving back any time soon. Here, bottles grow on trees and flutes pop out of the earth like dandelions. Could I really go back to beer and brats when I've grown accustomed to Champ & foie gras? Ok, I could definitely go back to it.

I've tried explaining this, but some how I get the impression it's just not sinking in.

Frog 1: "Is it a religious holiday?"

Me: "Nope."

Frog 2: "Is it to replace Christmas for atheists?"

Me: "Not even close."

Frog 3: "Is it just because you are all fat and want to eat?"

Me: "DING DING DING DING!!!!"

Honestly, what is the point of this holiday other than to stuff ourselves and take post-turkey-inhaled-naps? Oh oh, right...the pilgrims. Yes, yes. Because we all care so deeply about that. Come on, like I can explain this to the French without laughing...

"We're celebrating the collaboration between the native Americans and pilgrims during the winter season so that the pilgrims wouldn't all starve to death."

They're French. You do realize what they're going to say to me if I lay this pearl of wisdom on them?

"Oh. So zey saved you from ze starvations, and you sank zem by killing zem all and stealing ze lands? And zen, you make ze holidays because of ziss?"

My french family had some difficulty understanding it, and I don't blame them. It really makes no sense at all. It's like the German's having a Holocaust holiday. Being the wonderful human beings my french fam are, they try to make me feel like a little bit of home is here, and we have celebrated turkey day for years together.

On the whole, it's wonderful. We eat the classics, but there was one variation I'm not so sure of. The whole... turkey... stuffed with ham... part. Apparently all stuffing here has some kind of meat in it. I think ours had a flavor somewhere between liver and ass. Double meat = not a good idea in this case. I've dubbed it the Tamkey. Next year I'm suggesting that the meat-stuffing of choice be hamburgers. And everyone, including grampa, must wear a plaid cowboy hats at the table. (see illustration.)

My husband just sent me this... clearly, he knows how to get me out of work by 5pm.

Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson Robert Pattinson

Thursday, December 10, 2009

In France the social rules are clear. There are no gray areas. There are no "maybes". Frog society has a do or die mentality, and you best not have a death wish or it'll take a lifetime to get back into their good graces.

I'm not a partier, never have been. But I've had to emerge from my hole twice a week for an occasion the last month and a half and I have to admit, I'm taking out all these extra sorties on my unsuspecting colleagues, who I adore ironically.

I can't help it. I'm on outing overload! All I want to do during my lunch hour is fool around on facebook, blog, catch up on email or find out what kinda trouble Lindsay Lohan has gotten herself into now. (I heart that sassy redhead, even if she's become a wrinked, dried up blond hag. A hond. A blag... but I digress.)

This is unacceptable. It's chiseled in stone on the French ten commandments for social integration, and it is number 2 right behind "thou shalt not miss a birthday party EVER":

"Thou shalt go to lunch EVERY SINGLE DAY RAIN OR SHINE with your colleagues"

I can honestly say, that this group is pretty great. The other day they showed me this, Vilky Way, which is the equivalent of SNL over here and I knew that our shared love for poop-humor made us a spectacularly cool group; but I don't need to see them eat.

For now I'm using Christmas as an excuse, but it's not going to last. Guess I'll have to find more merde-humor to bring us all back together when they get mad at me.

I honestly don't believe this war has ended. In fact, it probably never will. The French have a beautiful sort of outlook on life, here's how I'd sum it up:

Change = you are trying to take away my right to [insert right here], so now I'm going to grab my flag and parade down the street wearing bright orange, smiling like it's the best day of my life -- until I see a camera, then I'm going to get REALLY REALLY mad, I'm talkin' worked up, and try to get an interview; during which I will try to justify my rage, and 80% of it will be total bullshit.

If I were French, I would read that last sentence and say:
"You said it yourself, 20% of it is real."

Don't take my word for it. Take any example of reform from the last twenty years if you want to see how it works over here. Today is another case ironically.There is (yet another) train strike happening. Don't ask me why, the strikes are so frequent I've stopped paying attention to them all together. I used to google them to find out why, but now I can't even find that anymore. The reasoning has been replaced with 1 line of bored commentary:
"yeah yeah, blah blah, strike tomorrow, 1 train out of 5, yadda yadda."
Followed by an hour of riveting soccer reporting.

Before you frenchies reading this go jumping down my throat, there are legitimate reasons to strike. There. I said it. Stop going "pphuuuuuuuh" and shaking your head at me. I defended your coveted right to pout.

Being on the outside, to me it's a part of the culture to revolt against anything & everything. What you're out of Camembert? STRIKE!! No more Cheval Blanc?? DOUBLE STRIKE!!! You've stopped making Champagne??? DEATH! DEEEAA--euuuh.. err.. a tad O-T-T... RIIIOOOOOOOT!!

If the proposed change is not immediately forgotten, the aforementioned clan of whiners will roll over and spin on their backs, howling like three year olds. I guess I can't really blame them, if my culture were totally aclamated to my not going to work for any reason whatsoeverthen I'd stay home one day a month too.

Hmm... I'm running low on shampoo... you know what that means. 3-day weekend, here I come!!

There are many things about fashion that escape me entirely. Ask any of my friends and they'll tell you that if couture were a religion, I would be its Antichrist.

Until moving to the city, I was sporting t-shirts, jeans, and old tennis shoes to work. I've gotten better, but am still a hopeless cause. (My boot has a hole, since no one can really see it, I pretend it's not there. Shh. It's our little secret.)

Now that we're living up the street from the glory that is, La Tour Eiffel, I felt It was necessary to clean out the ole wardrobe. Goodbye hokey sweaters from 2005. Sayonara, used-to-be-white business shirts with giant pit stains. (Now if sweating were a religion, not only would I be its goddess, but I'd have a slew of perspiration minions to do my bidding.)

Alas, I have no minions, but I could sure use some to help me understand the latest French trend... pantlessness.

You read that correctly. Pant-less-ness.

I know we're in a recession, but, really? No pants? Are we so far gone that people can't afford pants anymore?

I thought pants were a part of the main course. The potatoes in the meat and potatoes. Then again, the saying goes "No shirt, no shoes" not, "No shirt, no pants". Maybe they were predicting a bottomless phase was about to explode on to the fashion scene and didn't want to limit the clientele.

What do these girls do I wonder? They wake up, put on a shirt, and maybe a scarf. Accessories galore. Leggings? Yes Please! Then they sway their bum to-and-fro in front of a mirror completely satisfied with their high-fashion sense. Now I see them, and think, "god she must be freezing her exposed ass off."

Call me a prude, but if I see one more camel toe or butt crack, it will be one too many.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

I've been here for several years now, so I'm used to ze ax-an français. I find it very charming, it's sweet really no matter how badly they butcher English. But today, for some reason, (Fatigue + Sugar overload + Overworking + Caffiene overload), I couldn't stop giggling during the conference call going on next to me.

I was trying to work. I swear. But Cockney + French = too much. Every time they started talking, I burst into tears. Here are some gems from the conversation I just eavesdropped on:

My colleagues can be pretty awesome. There are days when I want to put my head in the paper shredder because of some ridiculous thing that no sane person would decide, but... for the most part I like what I do and I enjoy the people I work with. Lately though, my projects are stalling, and I can't seem to get them to to get the job done. (I know, you're wondering why this shortstack with barely 2yrs experience and no real authority is having difficulties? Insanity!)

So I devised a plan. A scheme really, that involves cookies. You see the French don't have a damn clue about what's in a chocolate chip cookie for the most part, (too obsessed with their precious Macarons) and if I don't teach them, who will? I'm proud to announce that my bribe to make them cookies if they finished a project has been successful, and we're launching a project in January after several months of hard work. I've reduced them to children. Bravo me.

Btw, I don't care if you build another Eiffel Tower by the time January rolls around, I'm never making you all cookies again.

Why?? Isn't it obvious? Butter and I have had a fight, and I've decided, just like with hair, that it's time for a divorce. It can sweet talk me all it wants with its moist, saltiness, but I've moved on.

Last night, I made the promised cookies. For three and a half hours. It smells in here. I never thought I'd say this, but, it's making me sick living inside a giant cookie.Something happens to me, and I suspect I'm not the only one, when I make cookies. I can't resist tasting the dough, and then everything begins to taste like butter. EVERYTHING. It's like it coats my entire mouth, and no amount of brushing will remove me from my milk-product-induced hell.

I had soup for dinner. Like drinking melted butter. Yogurt for breakfast. All I can taste is creeeeamy butter. I think I'm about to swear off eating for at least the next 24hrs. I blame the french with their skinny-jean-wearing, won't-work-without-cookies mentality.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

I know we haven't always gotten along. There were those little bumps and ripples along our path together these last 27 years that have been less than pleasant. But we're stuck with each other. Through frizz and split ends.

Turn around & look at me when I'm talking to you!

See, this is why we never got along. You have too much attitude.

You remember the perm that lasted four hours in the 90's? I do. It looked fabulous day one. I was the queen of spirally perfection, I would've made Nicole Kidman WEEP, and you just couldn't stand that. It's been downhill from there.

True, I had my moments. Like the time my brother and his friend decided to cut off a pigtail and leave the other mourning its loss. I know. It was rough. But we got through it dammit!

Yes, yes, there was that very unfortunate dying incident when you turned the color of ketchup and mustard mixed together. I cheated on my hairdresser just once, and I've regretted it ever since.

I KNOW, I shouldn't have trusted my friend's 16yr old little sister, I know that!! Are you ever going to let that one go? I was young! I made a mistake!!

So it's going to be like that, is it... Don't SASS ME! You forget your place Hair! On MY HEAD.

I've tried, Hair, I really have. I've used biologically pure hair products, Aveda has been my guide and you still split every chance you get, you selfish bitch. Do you have any idea how much it costs to make you happy? I'm not made of money!!

What's that? You don't like French water?? Can I help it if they don't put enough salt in? You always hold these things against me, they have nothing to do with US. Why can't you let me in?

It could be worse you know... I could use head & shoulder's on you. No, you always get conditioner, yet you complain. (siiiiggghhhh)

I've had it. I want a divorce. There was a very attractive auburn wig in the shop down the street that has been making eyes at me. I didn't want it to be this way, but you've left me no choice.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Do you know what "Tektonik" is? Most likely not if you're not of the age group 12-25 currently living in & around Paris. Fret not my friends, I'm here to enlighten you.

It's the dance craze sweeping the youth scene and just another notion in a long line of ideas I do not understand. I am convinced it was made up by someone old so they wouldn't feel old, while making other people (like me) feel old. That or it was a dare gone terribly wrong. Perhaps both? In any case, it's the new Macarena.

But Shannon, how do I become a master Tektoniker? It's easy! Here's a checklist for you:

5th and most important, Love thy arms-around-the-head dance as you love yourself

There you have it, everything you need to succeed my babies.

Antoine, my brother in law, just invited me to join a pro-tektonik group he's started. (Side note: I've lost track of how many anti-tektonik groups I'm in.) Do you know how close I was to clicking on 'reject this invitation'? Then I sat down and thought about what it was that I really disliked about this trend.... then I wanted to click on 'reject' again, naturally. Is it the mullet? No, not just the mullet. Is it the shoes? Nope. I can deal with those and even sported them for a bit myself between the ages of 7-10. It's the arrogance. People have been doing Tektonik for AGES. It's only recently that we've stopped calling it epilepsy.

For now I'll continue to be a wallflower at the Tecktonik ball until I'm the only one left not flailing my arms around my head, pretending to comb my fauxhawk. I can feel my "damn kids" complaints growing in the back of my throat & getting ready to shove themselves on to an unsuspecting public of sexually-ambiguous 80's regurgitaters.

I have a theory. Tiger is not satisfied being a Golf legend and having a name so virile it oozes testosterone all over your lips the moment it passes them.

No. You wouldn't know it to watch him on ESPN, but he has a softer side. He has ambitions. He has an attitude. He longs to show you the real Tiger.

But how to reveal this double-edged sword? Sure we like sass as much as the next person, but the golf world doesn't appreciate the flamboyant. Plad pants and "N'uh-uh, you did not just go there ho", do not mix. (Just look at Happy Gilmore.) You can't open up Golf Digest Magazine and see a six-foot-one man sporting a bouffant hair-do and orange earrings.

This is why I'm 87% sure that Tiger Woods moonlights as Miranda Bailey on the hit TV series, Gray's Anatomy.

Think about it.

Have you ever seen them in the same room at the same time? How do you explain the uncanny resemblance? You must admit, it has a distinctly familiar ClarkKentocity.

He goes home after a day at the course, pulls on his fat suit, takes out his giant teeth prosthetic and slides on his wig to remind us all that being a woman and a doctor is rough. I respect him more with each tear that drips down my cheek while watching him struggle to save lives of helpless babies and wide-eyed children.

I honestly believe that Tiranda has a lot to teach this world; though he's not the first, lest we forget the magic that was Chris Gaines, the alter-ego of Garth Brooks, who is the alter-ego of a nerdy guy from Tulsa who couldn't find a bush if you're judging by his latest album cover.

Tiranda, deep down, is a strong, effeminate queen who has an amazing gift for acting and hitting holes-in-one. A double threat, people. I for one, feel sad that our nation is so far gone that we cannot love this amazing human for what he really is-- so I beg you... Give Tiranda a chance.

And to you, Tiranda... take off the mask, or put on the make up, or whatever it is you need to do... just be fabulous you.

Me: Is the day over yet?
Clock: 5:28pm.... NO.
Me: Blow me.
Clock: meet you in the stairwell in 5 min.
Me: a) No, b) I meant you suck.
Clock: OK! Where then?
Me: I hate you.
Clock: You like it rough huh?
Me: I want to die.
Clock: can we do it first?
Me: only if you make it 6:30pm.
Clock: done & done.
Me: meet you in the stairwell in 5 min.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Mom: Billie, what do you want to be when you grow up honey-bunch? A fireman? An Astronaut? OOooh, maybe a doctor, then you could save lives!

Billie: Hmm... I want to digsuise myself as Mikey mouse in drag and taunt bulls for a living.

Little Billie clearly has issues. As do all bull fighters in my opinion.

What kind of a man chooses this as his profession? Let's first examine what is involved:

Rule 1: Utterly Ridiculous Attire

According to what I've seen on french TV, there's no way they're letting you into that arena without a pair of florescent pink socks, ballet-slippers and an ornate blue & gold suit that shows too much of your crack and whose jacket is an obligatory 3 sizes too small. Stray from the dress code and nary a bull shall you tease.

When compared to the rest of their flamboyant warrior wardrobe, the mini-Mikey ears hat is not entirely worthy of mention... but I'm going to make fun of it anyway. Apparently the look would not be complete without a hat which has no other ascertainable purpose but to serve as yet another point of ridicule. If Joe Bullfighter had the least bit of sense in his noggin, he'd be wearing a football helmet, am I right??

One last observation... why the giant, over-sized, look-at-my-enormous-schlong padding on the side of your pant leg? If you're confident enough to not protect your HEAD, then why protect your nether regions? Perhaps this is an insight into the true mentality of these Latin-cultured performers.

Let's move on...

Rule 2: Effeminate Stance and/or Expression

Having watched a full forty-five minutes of this sport with the serious objective of studying the art of bullfighting, I suspect that to be a professional bull-teaser you must hone to perfection your arrogant-but-surprised face and be able to gracefully prance with the best of 'em.

These men do not just walk up to their opponents. Nay. They strut. These men are no shrinking violets. Never. They make fish faces at the heaving beast while waving a giant red banner in its face.

If I were the bull, I too would try my damnedest to jam my horns as far up your ass as possible.

Rule 3: Piss it the F*ck off and pray your cock padding does the job.

Let's call a spade a spade. Bull-provokers are not in the ring to play cat & mouse, they're objective is to annoy the f*ck out of the pitiable 300lbs of muscle and horns until it's foaming at the mouth, circling them in a blood-thirsty dance of pure hatred.

Then, when their prey is furious enough, they stab it in the neck with two piñata-like prongs leaving it to bleed all over itself in font of a crowd of thousands. All that keeps it from charging is a determined index finger pointed at them that says "Beef, it's what's for dinner". Bring the kids, it's fun for the whole family!

Mothers... don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Or bullfighters I say; unless your child enjoys florescent clothing and has a strong desire to suffer a painful humiliating death in front of a crowd of entertained on-lookers.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

So you're a citizen. Great. Grand. Good for you. I'm a recent arrival, and if there's one thing that moving to a new country has taught me, it is that there is no incident in life more humbling than trying to get your visa in a suburb drowning in immigrants. Paris is a dream compared to my first experience.

Let me set the scene for you. It’s six am, and six degrees outside the ***CENSORED*** Préfecture and a short, white, (pompous, demanding, impatient), American girl is standing in line behind roughly two hundred African immigrants and their hordes of screaming babies. I had, in short, landed in the tenth level of hell with a sign on my forehead reading “loves emotional torture”.

I prepared myself for the long day of listening to unhappy infants and disgruntled parents, clutching my documents against my chest as if they contained the last known whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa. I was lucky that day. For once the saturated line was peopled with French speakers, and we inched our way towards the gate to watch the show that of comprised people being rejected one by one and then having a grownup version of a tantrum.

Two hours later my fingers had turned into Popsicles that my neighbor wanted to bite off since he just got rejected at filter point number one. My turn. I felt just like Atreyu approaching the deadly pair of sphinx statues prepared to burn me into oblivion. Except, my version had two five-foot-nine cops in uniforms almost as rigid as they were. Time to turn on the charm!

Me: My my my, don’t you look like a manly man with your little tuft of furry French hair sticking out under your tight navy uniform. I know you’re going to hate me by default, but can you ditch that rod-up-your-a**-frown for just a moment and… um... stamp this? Hmmm?? Pretty please? With a… cherry.. on … top? Do you have cherries here?

Cop-Sphinxes: (No response.)

I take this to mean I’ve been denied.

Me: How about 20$ and a bl*w job?

Cop-Sphinx number one handcuffs me.

Crap. It didn't work for Allen, I don't know why I thought it would work for me.

After smashing my head into the concrete a few times, I find the will to live and get in line to take a number to get in the line for the second waiting room where I will consequently take (yet another) number to wait in a different line before getting to talk to a very depressed human being.

Three hours and seven dead co-waiters later, I get to leave the first line in the series of lines and I am number 144! No one ever saw such a beautiful number. If I were another number, I’d want to have sex with this number. This number was a freaking Miracle with a capital “M”. Why you ask?? Because the woman, who most assuredly hates her life, announced that no one after number 144 will be seen today.

On cue, ten babies start wailing, five men rip up their tickets ferociously, and the people who don’t speak French begin milling around hoping to sneak upstairs to the forbidden room where the magic happens. Several baby-mamas form a multicolored huddle that made you dizzy if you looked at them for too long and start rattling off insults in the general direction of I-hate-my-life lady.

One and a half more hours later, my left leg was completely numb and the little desire I had left to go on breathing was fading away when... "144 (B*tch! Get your a** up here before I call 145!!!)" was screeched out by a portly woman with bright red hair and sky-blue eye shadow obviously meant to camouflage the fact that her eyes look like they were trying to escape from her face.

I leaped into action and immediately fell back to the ground, on account of the leg, then proceeded to hobble over to her desk hoping that my crippled status would inspire some pity.

Me: HELLO (I say too loudly, because you must). I'm married to a French man and therefore have all of the rights of a French citizen. Please stamp this?

Madame crazy-eyes Announcer: CLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAR THE PAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSAAAAAAAAAAAGEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE... THE PASSAGE MUST REMAIN CLEAR INCASE OF A FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRREEEEEEEEE!!!! She howled at the non-french speakers.

She said “fire” looking directly at me as if she wanted me to spontaneously combust.

Me: I'm going to start your head on fire right after I pop your eye out with that stamper... I mean…

Me: Hi. I'm here to get this stamped. Will you stamp it for me please?

Stamp-wielding Hag: Here. (gives me a different number)

I took the number like it was a countdown to my death and sat down next to a man with a funny hat who smelled like soup. I began wondering if the best way to kill myself would be to slit my wrist and write "I Hate You" on the sticky floor as the life drains out of my veins, or tape a photo of the Minister of Immigration with a bull’s-eye on his head to my chest and jump off the roof. Just as I was reaching for a knife, they called my new number. My time had come.

After only seven excruciating hours, I was declared ‘legal’ for another six months.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

I wrote this blog last year, but it's still relevant and popping up in the forums I'm in right now, so enjoy!

1) "Dogg". Anyone who says this in my presence deserves a wedgie accompanied by an uppercut to the balls and/or vag. Yes, I said uppercut. I'm short, never underestimate an irritated dwarflike kickboxer with a penchant for words. Officially, no normal person should have said any name abbreviation followed by the word "dogg" (ex J-dogg) since 1998. It's like wearing white after labor day, except you sound like an idiot.

2) "Wigger". This one came to me while thinking of the first one. The lexicon has moved on, let's find a new way to mock these ethnically challenged losers.

3) "WAaaassssupppppp". Usually followed by #1 or "dude", also, must be stopped. I think I hate this mostly because it has been adopted by insecure, white, middle-class college students who think they sound ghetto.

4) "Excuse YOU". NO you rat-eating WHORE. You deserved whatever it was I did to you just for saying that.

5) "Yer fired". Yeah, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say nobody liked trumpy mc trumpkins before, nobody liked him after this super-catchy catch phrase... and nobody likes you if you say it. I will personally douse you with a hose attached to a butane tank and set you a-flaming should you say it within ear-shot of me.

6) "My bad!" . Every time I hear this it's synonymous with "I'm a f*cking idiot, please hurt me!!" and it makes me want to give you a swirly to put out the flames because you're probably dumb enough to have just said "yer fired".

7) "Winnable War". I'll keep my political views to myself and just say that the alliteration is annoyingly aggravating.

8) "Metrosexual". Can we just start saying "Part-gay"?

9) "Obviously" and "Clearly" ... when what you really mean to say is "If you even have a thought-bubble about contradicting my profoundly deep and undeniably correct insightfullness it will be obvious to everyone here that you're a-stupid".

10) "Life's a bitch and then you die". And in my opinion, if you say this, you deserve to be dead.

11) "winners never quit and quitters never win". Absolutely not true. Quitters can win. At quitting. Just look at Sarah Palin.

12) "lo and behold". Get off your biblical high-horse and speak like a human being.

13) "Don't worry, be happy!!". This phrase is like asking someone to smile at a funeral. Telling me to be happy doesn't MAKE ME HAPPY, it makes me want to break your leg and laugh at you while you cry. Wait... I guess I'm wrong, saying it would make me happy. Go ahead... try me.. hope you have insurance.

14) "Frankly" and "Truthfully". Whatever comes after this is probably a lie anyway.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

I am in love with Books, but I've been cheating on them with Movies my entire life. When I need some excitement, I tell Book I've got a headache until it falls asleep on the shelf next to my bed, then I sneak into the kitchen to make popcorn and finger my romantic-comedy collection. Cinema has always captivated me as books do now, but looking back, it was their common denominator, words, that had me hooked.

I first realized that I am a word-whore, grinding on anything with punctuation and emotion, thanks to my older brother (fondly known as "butt" or "buddy", I haven't used his real name in years). Like any siblings less than 2 years apart, we fought viciously. He was my nemesis. I was 'Luke' to his 'Darth', joined forever by the bonds of family but secretly wishing the other would walk in a steaming pile of yellow dog logs when they least expect it. (The really smelly kind that gush into your shoes and refuse to wash off.) From ages four to fourteen our sole purpose in life was to make the other:

a) cry.

b) bleed.

c) cry while bleeding.

Despite our mutual love/hate relationship I have him to thank for my epiphany. When I was ten my mother decided it was time for us to take a trip across the US to visit our family on the west coast. She naively thought that it would be lovely to do this by car; for which my only explanation is that she'd never been in the car with us for more than an hour.

We, her adorable offspring, started out the trip happily coloring, doing MadLibs and playing 'I spy', but the fun and games didn't last. We were bloodthirsty. Before making it out of state we were already "pretend fighting"; which consisted of slapping each other on the face repeatedly until for some reason one of us, (usually me), begins to find it less amusing, gets angry and tries to remove the eyeball of their opponent. About the time we hit the Illinois border, the scratching, kicking and screaming had come to such a pitch that my father began delivering his well practiced line: "You're laughing now, but you'll be crying soon!!". And someone, (usually me), always did. It was meant to be a warning which was correct 99% of the time; but being annoying, sugar-loaded, ferocious beasts, Butt and I would sarcastically mouth "you'll be crying soon" at each other in perfect synchronization with Papastrodamus and then, of course, try to get in a last slap.

The only way they got us to stop fighting was through the "mocks". We would re-enact our favorite movie lines from Ghost Busters to Dirty Rotten Scoundrels and as if the hand of God himself was poised to backhand us across the cheek, we managed to behave like human children for a short time. I dare say that “Oooh look, I think my testicles are dropping” is not the sweetest line to come giggling out of a red-headed ten-year-old’s mouth, but if it kept us from drawing blood my parents were willing to sacrifice a little of my innocence. Butt would start it off, and being the pretentious little know-it-all that I was, I'd tell him he was all wrong and correct him word-for-word, reciting verbatim the correct script that I'd memorized perfectly. I knew even then that I was addicted to words, not love. Sorry Mr. Palmer. I couldn't stand it if even one word was replaced by its (evil) twin, knowing deep down that the right word was sitting in the back of my mind like a buried treasure, waiting to be unearthed. That, and it also gave me a reason to make Butt feel retarded. What little sister can resist that?

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Me? Sarcastic??

Discovering the truth about Parisians... one humiliating story at a time.
This blog is a caricature and I am the self-appointed queen of exaggerationland.
The highly sensitive, sarcastically-challenged, emotionally-constipated and humorless should jump ship immediately.
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